Aesthetic Appreciation
by Burnedtoasty
Summary: G1: Welcome to Vruush, where those refused by even the Decepticons end up. A wonderful place in which mere proclivities can become obsessions, and mania can go unchecked on the fringe of society.
1. Prologue: Things That Lurk

**Disclaimer**: _I, in no way, shape, or form, own the Transformers© franchise or the characters it contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Hasbro, and the respective artists/writers/et cetera. No infringement intended._

**Continuity**: G1 Generation One

**Characters**: Original characters: Tideslash, Prowsaw, Hullpunch, Wavepounder, Shoreline, Wingdip, Seadart

**Warnings**: Some violence, **slash**, and general creepiness of everybody.

**Author's Note**: Criticism encouraged, technical points preferable.

--

There was not much use in a liquid-covered planet such as Vruush. Oh, certainly, it seemed pretty enough, from a distance; all purple and indigo, capped with blue, without a speck of _terra firma_ in any direction one cared to look. Its numerous Epipelagic-dwelling residents, as well, were wonders unto themselves; sleek, quick beings, sparkling and luminescent as fresh high-grade rations. Though skittish, they could prove hypnotic, diverse and graceful in basic build, made for speed and high maneuverability.

But, if one cared to drift lower, to view the deeper waters, to what denizens patrolled beyond the warmer tides… it was quite a different story. Things with teeth. Things that lurked. These were dark, bulky creatures; beings that cruised slow and easy, bulbous eyes turned toward the light and their shimmering prey, always looking for that telling glimmer against the darkness of their home.

And they weren't very good at discriminating on what _kind_ of shiny they sought out.

Tideslash jerked aside, sending up a great spray of foam as he banked. The massive, rending jaws snapped closed, rising like dark fingers from the deep. Empty, they slid slowly back into the churning water, unperturbed by the narrow miss. There would, after all, be other chances.

Caught by the pull of his own maneuver, the knife-like Decepticon spun about, stalling his propellers and simply going with the current he had created.

"This is exactly why," He said to no one in particular, "Nobody comes to visit." Harrumphing to himself, he dipped low into the water, riding out the waves as his sonar gave off a single ping. Ah, there was the slag-sucking lump, another of those nasty tri-jaws. Not yet realizing he had pinned it, the sea-beast smoothly glided toward his aft, propelled by filtered water forcibly expelled from its side-mounted ventilation slits. The trine of its maw opened, stretching to one hundred eighty degrees, the blackness of its gullet like great iris—

Tideslash crowed in delight, pulling his oversized propellers up to full revolutions as soon as the creature's massive orifice began to clamp down. The tri-jaw wailed its peculiar, low call, bits of its mouth and tongue-tentacles emerging from the frothing water in sprays of green-grey. It's body thrashed, desperate to back out of the blender that was its metallic prey, but it had gathered too much momentum, and became tangled in the churning blades.

Jerking forward, Tideslash at last pulled free from the mutilation as he felt his propellers strike upon solid bone, whipping forward as if he had been launched. The disfigured creature behind him continued to writhe and wail and moan, in the last throes of death even as its fellows descended upon it to begin the feeding.

Turning sharply, the Decepticon slowed his engines, pulling to a stop to watch the slaughter. Up went a pliant, carbon-gathering frill, shorn free from the unfortunate creature's head. There a flipper broke the roiling water, followed by a lethargic, murky expanse of body. One massive eye rolled about to regard the bobbing Decepticon, and just as quickly discount his existence. What was the point in hunting such a dangerous being when more readily available fare was there for the taking?

"That's ten," Tideslash chortled, tallying it off in his head. "Ten today."

The water began to still; the feeding was over, and naught but the sparest of pieces remained. Silent, ghostly, and well-sated forms slithered away, going in all directions of the deep.

Tideslash waited for the largest among them – those big enough to pose something of a hindrance to the Decepticon – to depart, before trundling forward, rumbling his engines and stalling his propellers to frighten the younger tri-jaws.

The creatures scattered from his approach, slinking out and away, leaving the messy, indigestible remains to the metallic interloper to do with as he pleased. Most had learned, he supposed, to fear the sound of engines. Those who did not take heed to the lesson, well…

Taking a moment to check his sonar once more – no need to repeat that last, embarrassing incident, no – Tideslash transformed, sinking deep into the water. The liquid immediately sucked him in, submersing him in near impenetrable gloom. The world was suffused in indigo, with narrow slashes of light, and distant flickers of slight, glittering forms, the scavengers come to see what remained of the feast.

Tideslash, noting their boldness, kicked his foot-propellers into a low gear, just enough power to keep him barely brushing the surface as he surveyed his handiwork. The shining, slippery figures jerked, and slid away, back into darkness, leaving him to his grisly prize.

The tri-jaw had been of a decent size; nearly his length and half again, judging from the doubled spinal columns dangling from the badly-scored remains of its skull. Empty, clean, and white, it hung suspended, its optic holes wide and black. Unfortunate, for the optical units could be used to blend a decent polishing mix. Of course, one had to be quick to get the luminous, mucky-yellow orbs. It seemed a delicacy to all creatures, and was the first thing to go when a tri-jaw perished. Evidently, the beasts were getting desperate, as well, to risk his ire by going after such a recent kill. Somewhat unfortunate, but not particularly worrisome. Organics were not to be feared, after all; they were inferior, simple diversions. Their lapse in training could be rectified with only a minimal amount of effort.

Tideslash grinned. "Ten," He told the deeps. "Ten, and not even a full rotation. I'd say the lesson is going swimmingly." Amused by his own jest, he broke out in a fit of chuckling, tickled with his wit. "Let's see Waves beat this."

Still chortling to himself, the Decepticon reached out, seized the drifting bit of vertebrae, and began to take it apart.


	2. Where It's Dark and Deep

"A'right, you sorry clunkers, show what you got."

Shoreline squirmed uncomfortably, his optics sweeping back and forth among his larger fellows. On all sides, he was met with smug grins and confident optics, and no reassurance. Feeling distinctly inadequate, he made himself as compact as possible. Barbarian games, all of this – designed for mindless brutes and grunts, and those sorry mechanisms dredged up from the refuse of society. He didn't understand the appeal in the least. Violence, violence, violence, that was all they understood. Hardly a civilized circuit in their whole bodies.

Somewhat emboldened by the mental pep talk, he found enough strength of will to lift his head and regard his fellows. "This is idiotic," He burbled petulantly, as was his wont. "It's not like there's even a point to this all. It's puerile. Disgusting, even."

"Yer just being whiny 'cause you never get anythin'," Wavepounder grunted, heaving three skulls and a hefty pile of spine parts onto the table. "Whine, whine, whine, all fragging cycle. Sounds like a broke cog, yeh. Well, I'm done listenin' to yer squeakin'. So, Shoresy, mute it or lose it."

Grimacing, the smallest watercraft fidgeted, glancing askance at the massive cargo hauler. "It's stupid," He grumbled as quietly as he could, not quite daring enough to risk the gigantic Waverpounder's wrath. Tentatively, he pulled out a string of light, shimmery bodies, setting them carefully on the gore-splattered table. It had been quite a task to collect the slippery little creatures, all without drifting far into the deeps. Still, he had brushed that border enough, felt the darkness that went on and on without end below him. Even now, safely holed up in their secure bunker, the blackness of the ocean still filled him with a mindless, expansive dread, prompting a long shudder.

But he didn't have to go out far, not really. No, he could stay here, away from the dark that threatened, consoled by these precious, beautiful things.

Tideslash seemed interested, in any case, leaning over to inspect his catch. "What's that all supposed to be?" Asked the scout, frowning.

Shoreline allowed himself to puff slightly. "_Five_ darters. And a little tri-jaw," His voice quavered with something quite akin to pride, though the way he cringed at Wavepounder's disdainful glower belied the tone. "Caught them all this morning. Good sized, too. They've been feeding on your leftover gore, hiding below the solar panels. Fast, too." His back straightened marginally. "_Very_ fast."

"Darters?" Tideslash brayed, callously picking up the mass of dead organics. Shoreline made a desperate grab for his captured goods, wailing, but the taller mechanism simply stood up, looming over the tiny boat. "This is pathetic. Ain't even fun, catching these. _Darters_," He grunted, whuffing out another laugh, and tossed the corpses aside. "What a load'a scrap."

Shoreline cried out, diving after the string of darters. "Careful! They're delicate," He scooped up the partially smashed remains, slender fingers stroking the bruise marks spreading from where Tideslash had grabbed them. Murmuring soothingly to the dead creatures, he explained himself earnestly to the floor, hunched defensively. "You have to be gentle or their skins are useless. Primus knows I'm the only one who cares about exporting."

"Why don't you go out to the deeper water?" Tideslash interrupted blithely. One hand swung out to indicate the ocean at large, that looming entity that lurked beyond the buffer of solid, thick walls. "_There's_ the real sport. Tri-jaws every ten kliks, mark me. Why, I just saw one big as Wavepounder out there, swear it."

"N-no, thank you, no," Shoreline quailed, reassuming his seat with a greatly wounded air. As he rearranged his catch, he complained primly, "I _like_ darters. They're pretty, and they're fast, and they're harder to catch than those lumbering beasts you get. All _you_ do is chop up heads. _These_ take skill." Pleased with the new arrangement, he smiled benignly, stroking one smooth side with a finger. "Have to be careful not to damage them."

"Come on, Shore-hugger, I'll take you out with me next time. We'll make a game of it," Tideslash taunted, knowing how all mentioning of open water terrified the cowardly Decepticon.

"It's Shore_line_, I've _told_ you. And, and, I have no interest in your sort of games. I… I have far too much to do here, keeping the monitors and watching for, for messages, and…" He trailed off, coming to the end of possible duties and excuses. "And… things." He summed lamely, fretfully smoothing the lines of his catch.

Wavepounder harrumphed, shoving the darters off the table again. "Yer just scared to get in open water, yeh," He rumbled derisively, stomping on the abused cadavers with a wet squelch before Shoreline could scoop them up again. He laughed in his slow, plodding manner, filling the small room with the thunderous sound. "Little Tin-plate's scared of the _fishies_. Don't worry, yeh, I've got yer back. See?" Scraping the bottom of his foot across the flooring to loosen the remains of the squished darters, he leaned in toward Tideslash, stage-whispering, "These're not so fast, I think. We should let 'em see the _far_ ones."

"Could be fun," Tideslash agreed, watching as a distraught Shoreline wailed in horror, clawing at the spongy remains in a vain salvage attempt.

Shoreline gathered an empty sheath of pinkish, torn skin, clutching it close to his chest. A long, semi-translucent fin had begun to flake off and fall, only held together by the pale tracery of veins. Useless, now, all of them. Who would want to trade for damaged goods?

Accusingly, he stared up at Wavepounder, screeching, "You, you great _oaf_! You smashed them all to pieces! Do you know how far out I had to go to get these? You Tarnians – you're all just a bunch of, of scrap-built louts!"

Wavepounder's deep laughter died as abruptly as a windy-season squall. "What're you sayin', little chugger?"

All mirth fled the room.

Shoreline quivered, seeming to wilt as realization struck. "I- I wasn't, I didn't _mean_—"

"Should I toss you back out into the deep waves? See if you have a big mouth then, yeh? Huh? What've you got against Tarn, yeh?" Wavepounder, in all his impressive bulk, rose up, an implacable leviathan. Shoreline had tasted his ire before – it was not an event he hoped to relive.

With these thoughts in mind, Shoreline drew in upon himself, holding the skin as if it were a shield to defend himself with. He began to stammer supplications, feeling his doom drawing near. Wavepounder had killed over less, and even had the gall to brag about it after. Nobody would question after little him, Tower-built brat that he was, reformatted exile. The monstrous warrior might even be _commended_ for such an act. "N-no, I don't, please, I wasn't saying anything at all, it was a mistake, I'm sorry, Wavepounder, I didn't mean any of it! Really!"

"Good," Wavepounder grumbled, kicking out to send the smaller watercraft careening into the far wall. Shoreline cried out, tucking into a tight, trembling ball.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean that, really!" Squealed Shoreline, quaking. "Please, _please_, I didn't mean it!"

It was enough; immediately, the mood lightened, and attention turned back to the table, and its grisly contents. Shoreline, after a moment more to see if any further blows would come, quietly slunk back to his post, sitting hunched and shaking, optics fixated on the flat surface before him.

"Well?" Prompted Wavepounder, sitting back casually into his seat, grill-chin propped upon one palm. He waved his free hand amiably, akin to a senator graciously offering the floor to his competitor. "What you got, Slashies?"

Tideslash grinned readily. He took a few seconds to turn over the already revealed skulls, exaggerating being incredibly impressed by the display. "Three? Oh, my, Wavepounder. That'll be hard to beat. Big ones, too. Gargantuan. How much time did it take to find these?"

Scowling, the hauler leaned forward abruptly, thunking both arms heavily onto the table, hard enough to make the surface rattle and the bones jitter. "Put up or shut up. I ain't got the patience to be toyed with, yeh."

"Your wish is my command," Tideslash purred, still smirking, and un-subspaced his catch.

Vertebrae went skittering out in all directions, followed by the hollow thud of skulls colliding. Several smaller bone fragments burst free to sprinkle against his fellows, one still-meaty piece bouncing off of the top of Wavepounder's head-crest. Brown-green liquid oozed down from the reeking particle of flesh, making its gooey way down to pool at the joint between neck and shoulder of the hulking mechanism's torso. Wavepounder's thick fingers went up, flicking away the irritant, and scooping at the bloody mess. "Nice one, rust-bust," he grumbled, flicking his hand to rid it of the gunk. "Real nice."

Tideslash chuckled, running his fingers lightly over the nearest skull. "Thirteen. Please, try to keep your blubbering to a minimum."

"These're _small_!" Roared Wavepounder, punching his fist into the table. "And all chopped up, yeh. Not even clean!"

"Yeah? So? There's more these than yours."

Wavepounder shook his head stubbornly, rising to stand with his hands braced on the table. "Quality over quantity, yeh." He seemed smug, pleased by his impressive word use, a mere quote though it was.

Tideslash rose to meet the challenge, tilting his head back to stare the hulking mechanism in the optics."Where have _you_ been? All of mine together equal more than your measly _three_, even with 'quality'."

"Think yer better than me? Is that it, yeh?"

"Yeah. I am better. Wanna make something more of it, big bad?"

Tension crackled through the silent room, as the two brawlers stared each other down. Shoreline prepared himself to dive aside, in case he became a casualty in the upcoming scuffle.

Then, quite out of nowhere, Wavepounder broke out into a thunderous laugh, flopping back in his seat with a rueful shake of his head. He heartily slapped his hip, and sagged back, deeply amused. One thick finger pointed straight at Tideslash, and his other hand flicked out to slap Shoreline solidly on the shoulder, sending the reformat sprawling to the floor. "He's got brass, I'll give 'im that. Real brass."

Tideslash sketched a modest bow, snickering. "I do try. Now. To divvy up the maintenance chores."

Shoreline moaned. "Oh, but this isn't fair at all. You two are so much bigger than I am! I can't get the tri-jaws by myself, and—"

"_Wah, wah_, 'Hugger. My spark aches for you. Really. Aches." Tideslash grunted, not bothering to glance at the smaller mechanism as he scrolled through the datapad roster. "Since I get first call—"

Desperate, Shoreline heaved himself up, croaking, "Well, what about Seadart? He hasn't shown up yet!" He paused, flinching from Wavepounder's glower, and quailed beneath the scrutiny. Sitting back into his place, he mumbled to the table, "We have to wait for him, too. Equal shares and all."

Wavepounder grunted, and looked to Tideslash expectantly. "Yeh? Well?"

Tideslash shrugged. "He's still sulking in his quarters. Didn't go out, didn't catch anything."

"T-then he gets the most chores, right? The hardest ones. Last pick." Shoreline's voice nearly broke with hope. "It's only fair, since he didn't catch anything, right?"

"Mmph," Wavepounder nodded slowly, contemplatively. Tapping his fingers in a long, drumming roll, he eyed the smallest of their quartet, deliberating. "Mm. Eh. No. He catches more than you when he does go out. You get last pick, 'Hugger, same as always."

"No, no, that's not how this works!" Shoreline moaned, hurt by the callous treatment. "I still got more than him! It doesn't matter what he's gotten before—"

"So? You're still tiny, and besides, nobody likes you." Tideslash flicked out a wide foot, whapping the indignant watercraft upside the head. "Now shuddup. I'm picking for me and Seadart." With one last, pointed glare, he set about scrolling through the roster, carefully making his selections. When he was satisfied, he passed it to Wavepounder, who spent an inordinate amount of time picking Shoreline's newest torture.

When at last the datapad was passed on, Shoreline couldn't help but shudder. "This isn't fair. It _isn't_."

"Looks like you get the muck-work, 'Hugger. Don't worry, though. I'm sure you'll find some more pretty fishies out there to chase around." Tideslash waved him off, heading off for the private quarters. "I'm going to look in on his Sulkiness. Don't maim him too much while I'm gone, Waves. Primus knows, we can't afford to divert Prowsaw from his precious 'studies' again."

"But, but that big one, that one that hides on the floor…" Shoreline broke off in horror, writhing. He looked up at Wavepounder, mewling in consternation. "Shouldn't you do it? You're so much bigger, and stronger, and I—"

"Squeal, squeal, squeal little cog. Ain't nobody listenin' here but me, yeh."

Shoreline whimpered, tucking his legs in a little closer. "Uh… Maybe… I should go get the scrapers from Prowsaw, anyways, and, and," He trembled anew as Wavepounder leaned over him, casting him into shadow. "And…"

"Yeh?"

Shoreline's vocalizer whined with stress, and his optics flashed a watery, murky grey in mortal terror.

"Now's where you run, yeh," Wavepounder rumbled, optics a fiery, bright red.

Ever willing to please, Shoreline scrambled to his feet, and fled into the depths of their bunker, Wavepounder's roar of mirth hard on his heels.

--

"'Dart, you stupid slagger, let me in," Tideslash growled, pounding on the door hard enough to vibrate the metal. He paused for a handful of astroseconds, audios straining for a response. He swiveled his head to look up and down the hall, twisting his shoulders to see around his bulky, cumbersome hover-jets. Solitude thus confirmed, he leaned in close, set his fingers against the door, stroked and crooned with disturbing gentleness, "Seadart? Hey. Come on, open up, I know you're in there."

There was a hesitation, and a sullen, muted grumble. "How do you know?"

Tideslash's face twisted in something between a snarl and a smile. "'Cause you just answered me, you nitwit. Now open up."

From beyond the badly abused doorway, something shuffled about, and muttered. Distinctly closer, Seadart's petulant voice floated breezily, "Why?"

"Because I said so, that's why."

There was another long pause, and all at once the door panel slid away, revealing a sullen Seadart, optics dim to near blackness over his twitching faceplate. "Well?" He grunted, shifting on his ski-like feet. "Whaddya want?"

In answer, Tideslash shoved him aside. "Move it," He grunted, taking a cursory look around the recluse's quarters. It was a jumble of odds and ends – some of it broken parts, useless curios, things filched from other mechanisms from when their unit had been full and varied. Across from the duo, several different wings, of varying color and design, adorned the wall, placed with great reverence. They were meticulously cared for, kept clean and shining though all else had fallen into disuse and subsequent disrepair. Tideslash's lip curled in distaste as his optics swept the premises. "You're a mess, Seadart. And I'm not gonna cover for your slagging ungrateful aft anymore."

"I didn't ask you too," Seadart hissed, shifting his feet again and glowering with dour animosity at his uninvited guest. "And I didn't ask you to come back here, either."

"Feh. You dolt. You never do," Tideslash groused, growing more peeved by the moment. He held up a hand, ticking off points on his discordantly orange fingers. "I took your patrol, I got you the on-base duties, keep everyone off your propellers – what more do you want?"

Seadart shrugged disconsolately, glancing aside with a sullen murmur. "He went away, Tideslash," He said, quiet and full of hurt and hate. "He left me here. He didn't even say goodbye."

"Because you're a creepy fragging voyeur! Primus! You were practically welded to the slagger," Tideslash shoved him hard, gratified by the graceless stumble. He advanced on the off-balance Decepticon, bellowing,. "When are you going to smarten up? What do you expect when you stalk every flybot that breezes through? What do you think is gonna happen when they see you, all plain and stupid and almost begging them to just look at you? Huh?" He grabbed Seadart by the shoulders, shaking him for the simple catharsis of it. "Well?"

"There's nothing wrong with me," Seadart whined, shoving back hard.

Tideslash caught his arm, dragged him forward despite a half-garbled protest. He pulled the smaller mechanism as close as their hulls would allow, drew Seadart up off his feet and nestled his face in the soft gap beneath his armored chin. "Nothing wrong with me, either," he rasped, wretched and surly and longing.

Seadart awkwardly put his arms up around Tideslash's throat, tilting his head back to accommodate the jutting protrusions of his sometimes-lover's helm. His fingers explored the wide, heavy jets, the thing closest to a flight array Tideslash would ever come. His optics dimmed, and his enterprising fingers moved on, sliding with great disappointment down Tideslash's front. "It's not the same."

Tideslash grimaced, something flighty and dangerous glinting in his optics. "I'm not reformatting for your stupid fetish," He growled, dropping the smaller water-craft to the ground with a soft 'thunk'.

"I'm not asking you to."

"You better not be." A pause, and his body language shifted, somehow softening. "He's gone now," Tideslash murmured, touching the side of Seadart's face with something approaching delicacy. He traced the outline of the mask, up over the square protuberance that represented a chin, and back along the rounded jawline. "Gone for good. Transferred out."

"Yeah," Seadart choked out, as if the word was something bitter and painful in his throat.

"So all you got is me," He breathed, almost imploring, almost demanding. His fingers slipped down, loosely holding the cool throat in one hand, massaging the giving, rubbery cables with his thumb cautiously, carefully.

The bottoms of Seadart's optics crooked up, representing a rueful grin, and he nodded slightly. "I guess."

Tideslash groaned softly, tilted his head down, nuzzled the top of the smaller mechanism's helm, released his throat and stroked his sides, his arms, anything he could touch. Seadart cooed appreciatively, tilting his body to direct the caresses, though Tideslash knew the routes well. "Don't know why I come here at all," The sleek brawler hissed, tightening his grasp on Seadart's side vents. He clenched down possessively, spitefully, all trace of gentle consideration gone. "You're unappreciative, you're rude, you're, you're—"

Seadart grimaced, setting both hands on Tideslash's chest, guiding him back to the berth. The two tottered for a moment indecisively, uncertainly, but Tideslash fell beneath Seadart, catching his knees on the lip of the familiar, scarred berth. He moaned, pulled Seadart up so he straddled his middle, the smaller water-craft's legs not quite long enough to touch the cool metal below them.

"But you always come back," Seadart finished for him, leaning close, desperately. "Every time, you come back to me."

Tideslash off-lined his optics, letting his head fall back. "Yes," He said. "Yes."

He ignored the way only one hand explored him, pretended to not know that one set of idle fingers would reach up, and stroke with such terrible reverence those proud, graceful wings welded seamlessly to the wall.

"Every slagging time."


	3. And Monstrous Things Abide

**Edit**: The prolific typos are now fixed. Apologies.

--

Why, why, _why_ had he been so careless? Bad enough he had forgone extra rations before his hasty escape, but did he have to be so stupid as to send out a distress signal?

It had been going so well; he had fully infiltrated the post's hierarchy as an aide-de-camp to a senior officer, and thus was privy to all sorts of dirty 'Con secrets. He often had time alone to do as he would, and his clandestine transmissions to his distant Autobot commanders had never discovered. He had even managed to join a subgroup of fliers, despite not being of Seeker mold, and was on the threshold of what could very well be the biggest uncovering of his career.

Until, of course, they brought in _that_ prisoner.

Though it was true he had always felt something of repugnance for his part in the Decepticons' games, sitting idly as captured comrades were trotted through to the Maw, it had been a necessary evil. He could simply not afford to jeopardize his mission or self for the sake of a few broken-down captives. It had been imperative he glean this information, and maintain his post for as long as he possibly could. It wasn't as if he could really do anything about it, being only one 'bot on a planet full of enemy soldiers. Even if he could work out the roster and the escape route from the cells to their favor, the captives would have already been beyond saving; their minds raked and burnt out by the interrogations. They would surely understand – had they known of his true allegiances – that some things were above individuals, some causes more vital than one life. Sacrifices for the greater good.

So he had kept his cover and kept his silence, even participating from time to time in the Decepticons' games to avoid suspicion. Watched his fellows be taken down into that terrible darkness nicknamed the Maw, tunnels so deep that even their screams could not be heard. And so it had gone, him quietly collecting data, and feeding it back to his superiors in piecemeal fragments.

But he had gotten sloppy, stupid in his assurance of his invulnerability in the pecking order, started thinking like a Decepticon. He had idled by while perfectly cognizant prisoners were ushered in, stood primly beside his chosen officer like some sort of accessory, coolly reading off the designations.

Weary mechanisms shuffled by with vacant horror in their optics as they went by, swallowed by the oval of blackness that led to the holding cells. And he felt nothing, detached from this event and these strangers—

"Dodgefoil," His reformatted optics flashed, and his voice hitched slightly, nigh imperceptible save to those who listened intently.

A triad of blue dots turned up sharply to regard him. Despite himself, the infiltrator twitched, pulling up the data pad to somehow cover his slip. Had he remained still, unruffled, aloof, he might have gotten away with the deception.

But recognition flashed in those familiar optics, hate in that twisted snarl of rage as his old friend was shoved deep into the pit from which he would never return.

He regained his poise, continued on as if nothing had happened, despite the curious look a smattering of guards sent him. Questions went unasked, and as the last 'bot disappeared, he and his officer turned on their heels, retiring to their shared office for a few fortifying cubes of mid-grade before finishing up the daily report.

He had been somewhat nervous as he left for his berth that evening; Dodgefoil's detainment had rattled him, compromised his position. His personal report was brief, the line open and closed as quickly as he dared, to give as little time to track it as possible. He checked his lock several times, and recharged lightly, his extroverted sensors on high alert.

Despite his trepidation, not two groons later when the red dwarf they rotated around appeared once more to menace, no Decepticons had appeared to incarcerate him, and he moved freely about the base. Still, he took the bare minimum of his rations, keeping his wits sharp and attention focused. And so it went for rotations and rotations, and his guard relaxed. Dodgefoil had not recognized him; his old bodywork overhaul had not failed him, and it was simple, mindless odium that had prompted the mechanism to bear such a pointed look. After all, he had been standing by an official, casually reading off their names, proclaiming their doom. It was only natural to bear some revulsion toward such a being.

Dodgefoil would have understood, he had been certain. Would have understood why he did what he did.

It was a matter of sacrifice.

"… for the greater good," Wingdip cooed softly, wretchedly, and wedged himself deep into the crevice. The asteroids rough surface scraped his paint, caught on fissures and cracks in his armor, but he drove himself in as deeply as his body would allow, wedging himself firmly. Outside, Decepticons cautiously searched the asteroid belt that hung so indolently above their planet-bunker. They were off by a wide margin, but Wingdip still took no chances; he offlined his repair systems that tried so diligently to clog the rupture in his fuel lines, dampened his aura, and shut down several of his primary functions. No need for equilibrium, or coordination, when he had no intention of going anywhere.

Of course, he hadn't intended on fleeing his quarters with less than half a tank of energon, with half his regiment on his thrusters.

'_Did you retrieve the necessary intel_?' They had asked as he desperately contacted their frequency, coolly overriding his plaintive pleading for rescue as he crouched down behind the outcropping of red sandstone. In the distance, the booming screech of powerful engines had echoed, like the wailing of some gigantic, dying beast.

He had hesitated, afraid, quivering, his optics scanning the skies for his one-time command group. '_Well, no, but_—'

There was a terrible silence, a heady pause that had stopped all his protestations.

'_I'm sorry_,' they said, and sounded anything but, these faceless beings who he had for so long worked with and worked for. Distantly, he realized he didn't even know their names, or where he had been reporting to. '_But if you have no vital information, we can't afford to waste resources. It's for the greater good, soldier. You'll have to make your own way back_.'

'_Alone? How will I get back home? This is Outreach! It's too far out in 'Con territory for one mech on his own_,' He had gasped, shaking. '_I am supposed to get extraction_.' He had mewled, on the verge of becoming hysterical.

'_You knew the risks when you took the assignment. Our hands are tied_.'

'_But_—'

'_Collapse the signal, soldier_.'

Wingdip had quailed, too terrified to let go this tenuous hold to aid, too frightened to be alone in this.

'_Collapse the signal_.'

He cursed them, spat out vitriol and demands and protocol until the crackle of static revealed their absence. He pinged them, begged like a broken wretch in Dead End, again and again and again, with that terrible, awful static ringing in his audios all the while like a termination notice.

And then he had fled, ran and ran until it was safe enough to fly and bolted for the sky. He wasn't nearly as fast as a Seeker, but he was small, and his paint was dull, and they did not find him when he disappeared into the asteroid belt.

He had been stupid, so _stupid_ to get lazy, to think himself safe, when a mech would do anything, say anything, to spare himself the Maw. Old camaraderie, no matter how close, meant nothing when faced with such horror, when babbling the right names could save one pain for a cycle, for a moment.

What was done was done. His superiors would expect him to offline upon capture, as was his duty. To fry his own processor with a undisclosed passcode unique to himself, and take his secrets with him to Primus. It would be the correct thing to do. The right thing.

Sacrifice.

Wingdip trembled, knowing he had to be brave, had to do as he should for his kind, his cause. He had no choice in it. Protocol dictated it must be done.

"No," He burbled out, the utterance quiet and soft like a secret sin.

He cast out a furtive radar sweep, listened hard for the sound of engines. The Decepticons had moved off, gone the wrong way in their search.

Wingdip wrenched himself out of his hidey hole with a screech of stressed metal, brought himself back fully online. He pushed free of the space-stone, kicked off to float for the outer edge of the ring, using the tightly packed asteroids for handholds to keep himself going at a good clip. At the last, he pushed with all his might, spinning gently as he cleared it, and drifted, refusing to use his thrusters until he was sufficiently far from the planetoid. His side of the planet was black, hidden from the ruddy sun's baleful gaze, like a great mouth open wide in preparation of a lunge.

For the greater good.

"Not me," He whispered to the impassive void. "Not me."

--

Shoreline trundled down the long hallway, optics swiveling constantly, suspiciously. Save for the _hiss-clank_ of his footfalls, it was silent, and eerily empty. Despite his initial fears, Wavepounder had not given chase, and he was quite alone in the dimly lit corridor.

Feeling somewhat safe from repercussions in his solitude, he dragged his feet and made whining coos of distress, indulging in a good, long sulk as he made his way toward Prowsaw's section of their bunker.

"Big, stupid, clunking idiots, the lot of them," He seethed, casting a look behind him to confirm he was not pursued. Once, not so long ago, Tideslash had heard a rather desultory, uncharitable account of Shoreline's opinions, and experience had not been pleasant. Since then, he only performed his candid monologues where he was certain no one would hear, lest he be 'taught a lesson' once more. "They do not understand true value, or social order; it's just," He puffed up, thrust out his chest and set back his arms in a caricature of Wavepounder's lumbering stride. " 'Jus' all 'bout us, yeh'." He let the posture drop back down to his slump-shouldered shuffle, dragging the pads of his feet on the metal simply for the grating sound, hoping it annoyed someone (but not enough for them to go investigating, of course).

"Feh. What a foolish beast. Thinks that just because he's so big, he can shove me around. Why should he get so much privilege? He's stupid. I'm so much smarter, and faster, better than any of them. Shouldn't I get recognition? Shouldn't I be in charge?"

He looked aside at the wall, regarding his sleek reflection. It warped as he moved, distorted by buckled metal and cut with the ruddy rust that permeated every part of the base, but just from that glance, he could tell a noble-mech when he saw one. Built in Iacon, among the best and brightest. He was a shining exemplar, the paradigm of the civilized caste, forged where countless Primes had been built. Why could no one else recognize this greatness in him?

It was not his place to, to scrape _muck_ from soiled panels, to participate in what these crude brutes dared to call 'sport'.

The thought prompted a long, pained groan, and his gaze fell away from his deformed reflection.

Why was he always chosen for such deplorable chores? He was refined, elegant, the very image of prestige. It was not his place to be subjugated to such base thugs; he was meant to shine, to be delicate and beautiful and rare. Back when Cybertron had been in her glory era - so very long ago, it seemed - he had thought his alternate mode an amusing, exotic thing, a way of setting himself apart with unusual design choice. Oh, those had been wonderful times. How they had indulged themselves, existing in a stupor pleasure and repose, with only petty gossips looming as their greatest threat. They drank the most refined of high-grade, and lived as elite, separate from the teeming masses of common mechanisms. They were set apart, a society unto themselves, enjoying a life of dignity and exception, casually interacting with both Prime and senators alike.

… And now he clawed mud off of solar panels and the closest thing to socialization he could find was talking to himself in empty vestibules.

Oh, how the mighty had fallen! This was not what he had been promised so long ago, not what he and his fellows (what few were left) had signed on for. If he had known, if he had somehow learned of his fate, he would have run far away when Megatron came knocking, would have joined with the Autobots, though their accommodations were spare and their ranks disorganized in those first, frantic days of war. But the Decepticon leader had been charming, brimming with charisma and he fairly _dripped_ sophistication. His gifts were lavish and impressive, and, like gullible fools, Shoreline and his kin had fallen in with the warmongering brute.

How could he have known his alternate would be his trap, sending him to this Pit on the aft-end of nowhere, among such vile company? Vruush was the second furthest base – barring Outreach, that disgusting planet-prison – from Cybertron, isolated by the long emptiness of – he shuddered – space. Ugh. It took _ages_ for even the slightest rumor to reach them, and it was always hopelessly twisted beyond recognition by the time he learned of it. They processed their own energon, if such revolting fare could be called such, and lived in quiet desperation, their visitors only those who had somehow offended commanding officers and earned exile, or those sordid individuals on their way to Outreach. Hardly good company, any of them.

But then, why would anyone worthwhile want to visit such a ghastly planet?

Shoreline abruptly stopped midstride, one foot hovering mere millimeters over the well-lit, cleanly patch of flooring. He cautiously eased off, the offending limb coming back to rest beside its twin. He fidgeted nervously, peered off into the white, caustic brightness that encompassed the rest of the corridor.

It was a sharp contrast; on his side of the hall, it was rusty, filthy grime on every surface (barring himself, of course). But immediately opposite of that implicit divide, it was immaculate, shining-new despite being the oldest section of their bunker. Every panel was aligned with painstaking care, and there was no hint or sign of warping in the stressed metal. The lights worked, checked regularly and kept in perfect working order. Spick and span and as polished as the aft of any marshal he had ever seen.

It looked cheerful, inviting, even, which was all kinds of wrong in a _Decepticon_ bunker.

"Oh," Shoreline burbled, wringing his hands in his distress. He cringed, glanced back down the grubby passage he had just made his trudging way through. He looked back to the unblemished hall, that unsullied expanse that boded no good will. Shuffled uncertainly. Grimaced. "Why do I have to do this?"

Plucking up as much courage as he could, he flinched, lips pulling back in a rictus of fear as he extended one leg, and slowly – ever so slowly – crept his foot to that faultless surface—

"Shoreline!" a hidden loudspeaker declared shrilly, echoing off into the distance like a jolly proclamation of certain doom.

"Eek!" Replied the distinguished mechanism, dancing back to press his back flush against a wall.

"Come on, come in, now, mm, yes, come along," the speaker continued blithely, a static-laced whine just under his tone. "Don't be shy now, come."

"O-o-on t-the way," Shoreline stuttered, trying to unlock his knee joints and pry his fingers from where they had dug deep into the bunker wall.

"… You're still standing there, you are."

Shoreline eyed the hallway suspiciously, still searching for the covert glint of a sentinel camera, and, as always, finding none. "Yes. Just a moment, p-please." He pulled free with a wrenching squeak, stumbling into the light. The wall, now, was concaved in the shape of his back, with four little dots on either side where he had gripped so tightly.

"Mm, yes, come along, I'll prepare for your visit, yes," the jovial voice continued disarmingly, seeming to come from all around the trembling Decepticon.

It was rather disorienting. Shoreline was unsure of which wall to address, so he kept his head down, mumbling, "Not necessary, only going to be a moment, really," and making his way toward the end of the hall, optics flaring bright and fretful.

"Mm, no trouble at all, no. Hardly any visitors anymore, no," Blithely, a door chimed as Shoreline drew near, sliding away to reveal what was possibly the stuff of nightmares. "Just me and mine, anymore."

The brown-and-rust colored scientist greeted him warmly, swinging down one of his manifold tentacle-arms to pat Shoreline's shoulder mount and usher him in, the massive, lone optic whirring quietly as it focused on the tiny Decepticon. Prowsaw grinned with lopsided, exultant welcome, pushing Shoreline deeper into his bay of horrors despite the smaller mechanism's inability to make his legs work. "Ah, are you injured, mm? Does it hurt? I can fix it, oh, yes, right away, right away. Why, just now I found a way of diverting fuel lines to prevent energy loss in surgery…" His crab-like front-mounted hand-claws flexed, eagerly, and several rather distressingly honed implements flicked out on the end of the tentacles, medical equipment gone terribly awry.

Shoreline winced, jerked away from the medic's hold, strangling the screech of terror before it made its way free from his vocalizer. "N-no!" He choked out, quaking.

Prowsaw's optic flickered as when he reared back, his cheek-vents hissing steam as he appraised the small Decepticon again. His expression was not quite as affable as it had been, somehow strained despite the lack of discernible motion. "Oh?"

Shoreline's mouth worked though it lacked words, and he began to twitch and shudder with stress feedback looping through his overworked processor. He couldn't offend Prowsaw, no one did. That was a bad thing, _very bad_. "I, um," He began haltingly, desperate to make appeasements for the transgression, "Er, no, no, I am uninjured, as of the moment. So sorry. You'd be the first I'd come to, if I was, of course, but, right now, I am, uh, not. As you can see." He spread his arms for Prowsaw's inspection, trying to ignore that little voice that told him to bolt before he was diced to ribbons. Or worse. Oh, so very much worse.

He tried to not look back into the corner.

"... See?" He asked, mouth crooking up in what could, if one were lenient with facial expressions and their labeling, be categorized as a smile.

Prowsaw nodded sympathetically. "I do. Unfortunate, unfortunate indeed. Well, circumstances do change, mm? Who's to say, who's to say what will happen?" He waved off further apology, tottering his way back over to his scarred and blackened working station, gracing Shoreline with a warm, friendly grin brimming with dark intent. "Here's to hoping, mm?"

"Er, yes," Shoreline replied nervously. "Hoping. Yes." His optics drifted across the walls, old splatters of energon and unidentifiable fluids that disfigured the otherwise cleanly expanse. Organic splicings, the dried husk of a mammoth tri-jaw from when the bunker had first been established, and, in the unlit corner—

Shoreline shuddered, twisted his head back around to stare at the medic gone wrong. "I, I came here for the s-s-scrapers, for the muck outside," He explicated hesitantly. "O-on the panels…"

"Oh, poor, poor thing! Poor thing indeed, mm. So scared, so scared, I can taste it in the air," Prowsaw declared mournfully, nodding with deep compassion despite how his tentacles wriggled in what could only be called anticipation. "Glows with it, mm. Glows so bright." The lone optic whirred again, and Prowsaw gamely turned his head toward the far right, somewhere vaguely diagonal to Shoreline.

Oh, no.

_Please_, no.

"Hullpunch, would you be a dear and help poor, poor Shoreline?"

"N-no, no-not necessary, I, I can f-f-find it on my own, t-thank you," Shoreline said quickly, inching toward the back room, the storage closet. But it was already too late. Far too late.

There was a great clattering, the sound of shuffling, shambling strides toward him, and he abruptly became aware of a vast presence standing at his back. "Uh, uhm, yes, I, I, I don't w-want to be a bother, no, and I can, uhm, uhh, I can get it j-just fine, I kn-kn-know where it's at—"

Prowsaw chortled genially, all good-natured mirth. "Mm, but can you _reach_ it, hmm?" He laughed again, beckoned that lurking thing at Shoreline's back. "No, no trouble at all, ah. Hullpunch, would you be so kind? Thank you, my dearest."

"… Ah. Um. T-thank you," Shoreline mumbled, cringing before the hulking, mindless beast that loomed so near. He risked a glance over his shoulder, shaking hard enough to audibly rattle his frame.

The malformed abomination stared down with its obtuse, orange-yellow optics, jaw slack and limp. It gibbered slowly, a wet cough of sound, not-words rattling around his vocalizer like loose scrap metal in a vacuum. The tiny arm that adorned its left side – not its own, clearly, colored beige and green and pockmarked with long welding marks – scratched imprecisely at the air, fingers twitching and grasping in a most unnerving fashion. The atrocity against all sentient life bumbled forward on uncertain legs, a chimera being unevenly grafted with the parts of many mechanisms and organic creatures, its aura a writhing mess of conflicting signals. Incompatible energy signatures of varied beings brushed against Shoreline, revealing a gruesome spark unwillingly forged by unholy splicing. Or so the rumors went.

Shoreline, for one, could readily believe such a thing.

"Think nothing of it, dearest, mm. Nothing at all." Prowsaw said fondly, gazing at his misshapen get, the product of years of experimentation, the reason he had be expelled from his Iaconian home. His living, ghoulish experiment, his assistant, and, some dared not even whisper, his lover.

Shoreline quailed, too afraid to move. The amalgamation being stared down at him, something wet and slimy sliding free of its mouth to hang uselessly at its cheek, laving quietly at some annoyance.

"… Ah." Shoreline uttered, at last finding the wherewithal to flee. He bolted across the room, the monster that had, one time or another, been a perfectly normal, functioning mechanism galumphing after.

"I-I've got it," He squealed, though his fingers missed the unlocking sequence the first time. He whined desperately, jabbing at it again—

There was a sullen creak, and the unnatural steam-heat that wreathed that dreadful creature enveloped him, pressed uncomfortably against the back of his head, creating beads of condensation on his plating. Shoreline's body locked up, optics widened to the point of pain, as the petite green hand reached out, pressed the buttons with leisurely precision. The door pealed its merry confirmation whistle, and whooshed open promptly.

"...Nhnn." Shoreline managed, standing at rigid attention.

Something prodded at his shoulders, soft and flexible and oh-so-very disturbing.

_He's licking me_, some distant part of his processor informed him helpfully . _That. Thing. Is. Licking. Me._

"Oh," Shoreline wheezed, not able to summon enough mental focus to screech, to flail, to _run_.

Straightening, Hullpunch reached over him, pulled down the equipment with a soft grunt. The hulking, broken thing handed the desired implements down with its larger hand, the plating crunching and flaking off like strange precipitation to land on Shoreline's body in rust-red dust, coating his torso thoroughly.

The miniscule Decepticon wordlessly took the proffered items, mumbled a quiet, vacant 'thank you', and stiffly pivoted about to march away from beneath Hullpunch's arm.

"Take care now, mm? See you soon," Prowsaw called from behind, as Hullpunch crab-walked over to him. The behemoth crouched down and bumped his gargantuan head against one wicked scythe of a tentacle, drooling and grunting, and was petted tenderly for his trouble.

"Of course. Thank you." Shoreline replied primly, not turning around to watch the display. The door opened, and he stepped out. "Good day."

The response, he was certain, was not meant for him. Prowsaw continued to stroke his doting Hullpunch, crooning his little nothings to an eager audial. "There's my dearest one, yes," The affectionate, intimate whisper floated solemnly from the medical bay, and a purr-grunt of satisfaction soon followed. "There's my dearest spark."

Shoreline took a few uneven steps forward, and, politely, waited until the door was closed before he started to scream.


End file.
